Glory by Vladimir Nabokov Page A

moonlight he asked a good-natured bobby to help him climb over a wall, and, once on top, he leaned down and snatched the helmet off the man’s head. He was also the instigator in the episode of the fiery chariot: it happened during the Guy Fawkes Day celebration; the entire city was spewing fireworks, a bonfire burned in the square, and Vadim and his pals harnessed themselves to an old landau acquired for a couple of pounds, filled it with straw and set it on fire. Dragging this landau they sped through the streets, nearly burning down the town hall. On top of everything he was a master of foul language—one of those who become attached to a ditty and repeat it endlessly and are fond of comfortable mother-oriented oaths, caressive physiological terms, and fragments of obscene poetry attributed to Lermontov. His education was undistinguished, his English very droll and endearing but barely intelligible. He had a passion for the navy, for minelayers, for the beauty of dreadnoughts in battle array. He could play for hours with toy soldiers, firing peas from a silver cannon. His quips, his pumps, his shyness and mischievousness, his delicate profile, with its outline of golden bloom—all this, combined with the splendor of his princely title, had an irresistible, heady effect on Archibald Moon, somewhat like the champagne and salted almonds which he relished formerly, a lone, pale Englishman in a bemisted pince-nez, listening to Moscow gypsies. At present, however, Moon sat by the fire with a cup in his hand, munching a muffin and listening to Mrs. Zilanov, who was telling him about the Russian newspaper her husband planned to start in Paris. Martin, meanwhile, reflected with alarm that it had been a mistake to invite Vadim, who sat silent, embarrassed by Sonia, and furtively kept shooting raisins, borrowed from the cake, at Darwin. Sonia had grownsilent too, and sat gazing pensively at the pianola. With an easy swing Darwin walked over to the fireplace, knocked the ashes out of his pipe, and, turning his back to the flames, began warming himself. “Mamka,” Vadim mouthed softly and chuckled. Mrs. Zilanov kept speaking excitedly of matters that did not interest Moon in the slightest. It grew dark outside, and somewhere far off newsboys were shouting “pie-pa, pie-pa!”

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    It was time for the Zilanovs to catch the train back to London. Archibald Moon said good-bye at the very first corner and, with a tender smile for Vadim (who behind his back usually referred to him by an indecent noun supplemented by “on rollers”), glided away, holding himself very erect. For a while Vadim rode slowly right next to the sidewalk, with one hand on the shoulder of Darwin, who walked alongside; then he said a quick but fussy good-bye and sped off, making a sound with his lips like a broken klaxon. They reached the station, and Darwin bought platform tickets for himself and Martin. Sonia was tired, irritated, and kept slitting her eyes.
    “Well, thank you for the hospitality, for the nice party,” said Mrs. Zilanov. “Give my regards to your mother when you write to her.”
    But Martin did not transmit the regards: such things are seldom transmitted. As a rule, he had trouble writing letters: how to tell, for example, about that rather muddled, somehow unsuccessful and unpleasant day? He scribbled ten lines or so, recounted the anecdote about the student, the closet, and the cousin, assured his mother that he was in perfect health, ate regularly, and wore an undershirt (which was nottrue). Suddenly, in his mind, he saw the mailman walking across the snow; the snow crunched slightly, and blue footprints remained on it. He described it thus: “My letter will be brought by the mailman. It is raining here.” He thought it over and crossed out the mailman, leaving only the rain. He wrote out the address in a large and careful hand remembering for the tenth time as he did so what a fellow student had once said to him: “Judging by your